


It Could Probably Be Worse

by oh_ms_omegalomaniac



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: F/M, Kidnapped, Kind of dark, Prison, Torture, Youngblood Chronicles, a weird idea, but and idea nonetheless, but i had an idea, i hate band member/ofc fics so much ugh i am disgusted with myself, injuries, not really - Freeform, sorry - Freeform, um, ybc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_ms_omegalomaniac/pseuds/oh_ms_omegalomaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: This is only based on existing real people- it is a work of fiction and is about characters who resemble real people. Please don't harass any real people or friends/relatives of real people about shipping.</p>
    </blockquote>





	It Could Probably Be Worse

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is only based on existing real people- it is a work of fiction and is about characters who resemble real people. Please don't harass any real people or friends/relatives of real people about shipping.

Cruel hands shove me forwards and I fall to my knees, biting back a moan of pain as I hear the door behind me slam shut. 

"We'll come for you tomorrow!" 

Their laughter echoes me and I fight the urge to scream obscenities at the retreating backs of the women. That would probably just piss them off more and make tomorrow even worse. And trust me, that's the last thing I want to do. 

"Let me out!"

No answer, except for a quiet snicker and the door of the cell block close loudly. I wince silently at how rusty and dry my voice is. I haven't had anything to drink for far too long and I can feel the fuzziness of dehydration in my head already. I can only hope Pete and Andy and Joe rescue me soon-

No, not Joe. Joe's dead.

I killed him. 

Granted, I was possessed at the time, but that doesn't change anything at all. I'm a monster, golden eyed and deadly but Pete and Andy will help me, as soon as they come for me, I know it. They will come for me, right? Or do they hate me for strangling our best friend and leaving his dead body tied in an abandoned hospital?

Screaming probably doesn't help anything but the pain in my hand- the stump of what /used/ to be my hand- is agony and I just want to get away from it. Maybe someone's outside or nearby and they'll hear me and help me?

"Help! Get me out of here!"

"Nobody will help you, you know." 

A quiet voice comes from my left and I almost fall over in shock as I turn around quickly. The sudden movement makes my head spin and I close my eyes for a few moments to regain control before surveying the cells around me. It's pretty dark but the routine flash of a light makes it so I can just make out what looks like a blindfolded person slumped against the bars near me. I crawl unsteadily towards the voice. 

"Who are you? Why are you here? And my friends will come for me."

I know they will.

My cellmate laughs unsteadily and shakes their head slowly. 

"No one ever comes for us here. Are you real? I don't think you're real."

I think I'm real. It would kind of suck to be the figment of someone's imagination.

"Yes?"

"Can... can I touch you? Sorry, I just..."

I nod, despite knowing the person (who sounds like a woman, from her voice) probably can't see the action. 

She pushes a thin hand through the bars and before I can stop her, gently brushes cold fingers down my arm and against the mangled remains of my hand. I fight back a gasp of pain and the woman draws her hand back quickly. 

"Sorry. You're real. You're real! So, the ladies, yeah? They hurt you bad?"

The sigh escapes my lips before I can stop it. I think I'm 'hurt bad'. Apart from having my hand chopped rudely off by a freaking meat cleaver, I'm pretty sure the cult capers cut me open and fucked up my insides real bad. I don't remember much from the dimly lit basement, but pain and my own screams tend to stick in my memory. 

"I'm sorry, but it's going to get worse."

Well, shit. 

I squint as my cellmate shuffles a little closer to me, holding out her arm in my general direction for inspection. Rough scars and burns criss cross her pale skin. A dark bruise is trailing up her arm and I can make out fingerprints on her wrist.

Shifting my gaze from her arm, I sharply intake breath as I notice dark stains covering her shirt and a nasty, semi-healed scar ripping down her neck and across her collarbones. 

"I'm Autumn. I've been here, what, maybe a month now?"

"That's... that's horrible. I'm so sorry, are you in pain? Can I do anything?"

Her rusty laugh comes again. She starts to shake her head before pausing and smiling sadly. 

"No. Actually, yes. Can you... sing?"

Can I sing? I'd hope so. My name is Patrick Stump and I'm the vocalist of the band Fall Out Boy. 

Taking my silence as a refusal, Autumn sighs quietly and shifts away slightly. 

"I'm sorry, I know it's strange, I'm just a little sick of my own voice and music was my life before I was dragged here."

"No, it's okay, I can sing. Any requests?"

The woman smiles in my general direction, looking a little happier than before. 

"Know any Fall Out Boy? They're my favourite band."

Well, how's that for ironic. 

"My name is Patrick Stump and it must be your lucky day."


End file.
